


In da club

by Kowala1000



Category: Daredevil (TV), John Wick (Movies), The Defenders (Marvel TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Crack, Crack Crossover, Crossover, Dogs, Gen, Slight spoilers, don't threaten dogs around Frank Castle, don't threaten dogs around John Wick, slight ambiguous spoilers for The Defenders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 19:25:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11951007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kowala1000/pseuds/Kowala1000
Summary: Frank's night just took an interesting turn.





	In da club

**Author's Note:**

> You guys. I did a thing at 3 am, after the realization that I love revenge, gunfights, doggies, and badasses with a soft spot for doggies. It's dumb, but I had fun writing it.
> 
> Happens just after the events of The Defenders (so slight, ambiguous spoilers) but during the events of the first John Wick movie.
> 
> I own none of these characters. Just playing in the sandbox is all.

This is not how he pictured the night going. 

It _had_ been a recon mission. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with the Tarasovs. Yeah, they were scumbag mobsters, but for the most part, the only bodies he could put on them were other scumbag mobsters, which was no skin off his back. After all, Frank was a one-man operation - if these assholes wanted to help him out by killing each other, he wasn't going to interfere. That fell - had fallen, Frank corrects himself with a twinge of something like sadness - squarely in Daredevil's wheelhouse. 

No, generally he left Viggo Tarasov and his ilk alone. But that's before Viggo had let the leash off his foaming-at-the-mouth, idiot son. Working with Page, Frank had conclusively tied at least four rapes and the beating deaths of two working girls to Iosef. It was a matter of when, not if, with young Tarasov, and tonight, Frank was laying the necessary groundwork. At least he _had_  been before the nightclub had erupted around him in an explosion of screams, gunfire and blood. At Ground Zero, a tall man in a dark suit. 

He watches, impressed. The man is poetry in motion, death as a ballet. Virtually every movement results in at least one fatality, and so far, the ledger is free of bystander blood, from what Frank sees. This guy would've made a helluva scout sniper, and that wasn't the extent of it. 

What the man does is closer to Red's thing than Frank's own, but there are definitely elements of both. It's like...if he and Red had a baby. A murderous, unstoppable, well-armed, middle-aged baby. 

He winces in sympathy when the man hits the dance floor, and fights the urge to cheer when the man shakes it off, draws his gun and shoots, and gets to his feet. 

Frank follows, almost involuntarily, hypnotized, as the man lurches out of the club. He waits until the man finishes his phone call and they're out of earshot of civilians. "Hey, you bleedin' out or what?" 

The man pauses briefly, says nothing, starts moving again. Even badly wounded and stumbling, the man moves with a grace Frank envies. Frank's style has always been more bull-in-a-china-shop. It's now that Frank notices the impeccable cut of the man's suit. So not just a disgruntled mob footsoldier. Assassin, maybe? If so, it's probably not shit Frank should be stepping in, but his curiosity - and a strange, unwelcome sense of obligation - gets the better of him, so he forges ahead. 

"Listen, I got no beef with you taking out Tarasovs. Hell, that's what I was doing here myself, that Iosef is a viscous piece of shit, and needs to be put down." The man stops fully this time. Turns around. Appraises Frank. It takes only a moment before recognition dawns. "You're the Punisher. You're Frank Castle." Shakes his head. "I appreciate your work. But I have somewhere to be just now." Unexpectedly, the man's voice is soft, almost gentle, a stunning contrast to the massacre he wrought just moments before. 

Frank nods. "I get it. Seems like you're a busy guy. I just gotta ask - why? I...I can't just let you go running around the city blowin' people away in the middle of a nightclub full of innocents." Frank feels stupid asking, and wonders, briefly, if he can just cut and run, leaving this man to his work. 

A beat. "How about a hospital, then?" The man's tone isn't hostile, but it ain't conversational either.

Frank cringes just a little. "Fair point. Look, I'm not trying to get in your business, man. But I'm trying out a new thing, a...I don't know...do-gooder thing..." Frank stops, sighs. "Let's call it a tribute to a fallen brother-in-arms. I just...I gotta know you have a good reason, and this isn't just a turf war." 

The man considers, nods, starts to speak. Stops. Shakes his head, then looks Frank squarely in the eyes. _Oh_. Frank knows that look. It's raw, full of rage and grief, laser-focused and unrelenting. Frank knows that look, knows it well, and is fairly content to leave it at that. 

Then, so quietly that Frank almost misses it: "They killed my dog." 

Later, after Frank has done a quick patch job on the man's - John's - injuries, helps him to his hotel, exchanges phone numbers, advises John of the location of a number of Frank's weapons caches, and extracts a promise to call for help if needed, John mutters a brief but sincere "thanks" and "good night" as he walks away. Frank heads home with an almost compulsive need to hug his pit bull. 

_Wonder how soon is too soon to call_?  



End file.
